With each passing day, the Inner Sect Trials loomed larger in the minds of the disciples.

  Training grounds thundered with strikes, groans, and the clash of weapons. Yet, beneath the surface of ambition, the rumors of the Buddha Mask Disciple coursed like wildfire.

  By now, his legend had grown. Rumors stretching from incredible yet plausible to downright ridiculous. But one truth united the whispers—the Buddha Mask Disciple had struck fear into the hearts of those who hurt others.

  Meanwhile, Zhao Feng’s hatred burned hotter each time the vigilante’s name left someone’s lips.

  One night, Li Wei was out for a walk, his mask tugged tight against his face as he moved along the winding outer paths. Suddenly, a frantic flicker of qi reached his senses. He paused for a moment, then followed it, soon chancing upon a scene. A trembling servant disciple on the ground, surrounded by four outer sect bullies.

  “Hand over the scroll, worm,” one sneered, lifting a glowing palm.

  The boy whimpered. “I-I don’t have it—”

  Li Wei’s body tightened. Another staged cruelty? Or genuine? His fists clenched and stepped forward, voice steady. “Enough.”

  The bullies startled, then grinned. “The fool came.”

  Before Li Wei could react, the servant on the ground leapt up and grinned. From the shadows, seven armed figures emerged, forming a ring around Li Wei. Their robes bore the silver trim of elite outer disciples, Zhao Feng’s handpicked men, including the four whom Li Wei had defeated last time—Hu Shaotian, Liang Wuji, Shen Xianfeng, and Cao Mengze.

  “Caught you,” Hu Shaotian spat. He had been humiliated by the Buddha-Mask Disciple last time. He wanted to earn back his face by crushing him tonight.

  Li Wei sighed mentally. When did I become so idiotic? he thought with resignation. Otherwise, how did I manage to fall for this again?

  But deep inside, Li Wei knew his problem: he could not stand bullying. Every time he saw someone being bullied, it reminded him of the helplessness he'd felt after losing his cultivation—how nobody stood up for him, how he was ignored and treated as a less-than. Li Wei did not want others to experience that same helplessness, and him having the strength to stop it meant he had a responsibility. But now... Now, Li Wei was wondering if he was being too nosy, being overly sentimental.

  When doing good repeatedly harms you, is good worth doing? This question rang in his mind as the disciples surrounding him struck like a storm.

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  Two disciples lunged from opposite sides, blades flashing. Li Wei parried one with his forearm, twisted, and slammed his fist into the other’s ribs. The fellow collapsed with a cry, but another immediately filled his place.

  The circle closed, attacks raining down.

  Li Wei moved like a shadow within fire, fists hammering, feet pivoting, qi surging. His Iron Mountain Fist cracked against bone, every strike decisive. Yet for every foe he knocked aside, another pressed in.

  A blade cut his shoulder. Blood sprayed. He staggered, barely dodging a follow-up strike.

  “Not so invincible now, are you?” Hu Shaotian jeered.

  Li Wei’s breath grew ragged as wounds piled up. But the lotus in his dantian pulsed fiercely, so he decided to endure. He roared, qi exploding outward. His fist struck the ground with full force.

  The earth trembled. Shockwaves blasted outward, hurling disciples back as though struck by a giant’s hand. Dust and debris clouded the air, cries of pain echoing.

  When the dust cleared, four disciples lay unconscious, the others groaning in agony.

  But Li Wei stood bleeding, body swaying, mask cracked at the edge.

  Through the haze, a cold voice cut in.

  “So it’s true,” Zhao Feng said, stepping from the shadows. His eyes glinted like knives. “You really have gotten stronger.”

  Li Wei’s vision blurred, but he forced his body to move, darting into the forest with the last of his strength.

  Zhao Feng pursued, but the forest swallowed Li Wei whole. Due to the Heavenly Dao Lotus, Li Wei emitted no qi and vanished from Zhao Feng's perception like a ghost.

  "COWARD!" Zhao Feng screamed, but his cry fell on deaf ears to the fleeing Li Wei.

  An hour later, Li Wei collapsed beside a tree outside the sect grounds, his robes soaked with blood, his breathing shallow. The lotus in his dantian worked tirelessly, feeding energy into his broken body. He lay against the cold stone, staring at the crack in his mask. “Reckless…” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I was too reckless.”

  Tonight had nearly cost him his life. Fortunately, the lotus hid his qi trail, making escape easier.

  He clenched the mask weakly, then let it drop beside him.

  I cannot keep this up, he thought. Not like this.

  Back in the sect, however, rumors churned like wildfire.

  “Did you hear? Zhao Feng and his men were defeated by the vigilante. Dozens saw the aftermath!” someone said.

  “Incredible!" another exclaimed. "Senior Buddha-Mask took on that many and still won?"

  "Since when did we start calling him 'senior'?"

  “They say he shook the very ground with his fists," another whispered. "Only someone trained in forbidden arts could do such a thing!”

  “I heard the vigilante was beaten back into the forest and ran for his life like a dog.”

  "Your mother’s a dog!”

  “Doesn’t your father have ten wives? Only dogs engage in such debauchery. So your father must be the dog!”

  "If my father’s a dog, your mother's a bitch!”

  "What did you say about my mother?!"

  Others leaned close, whispering, “I hear the Buddha Mask Disciple is the disciple of a high elder...”

  Back at his residence, Zhao Feng was fuming. He grabbed a teacup and smashed it against the wall. He had not caught the vigilante, only seen his power firsthand. Although he had kept his calm at the time, the image of that ground-shattering strike shocked him. But worse than fear was the growing shadow over his pride. The vigilante had humiliated him without even showing his face!

  “Enjoy your mask while you can,” Zhao Feng hissed. “Soon, I’ll rip it off myself.”

  Outside the sect, beside the tree, Li Wei’s eyes were closed as Cycle of the Mortal Zodiac Wheel guided him.

  The lotus’s steady light pressed against his wounds, knitting them slowly.

  Three of the twelve petals were glowing.